


sed fierī sentiō et excrucior

by unsafe_business_practices



Category: The AM Archives (Podcast), The College Tapes (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Episode 9, M/M, Oliver gives the book consent to fuck him, Oliver is PINING for Mark, Orgasm Denial, Smut, because it's a book, under negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27113441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsafe_business_practices/pseuds/unsafe_business_practices
Summary: And so what if now he cultivates a certain mystique of aloofness? If he pushes people away to protect his heart even though he aches daily - hourly - for a reminder that he is real and he matters and that they can see him? So what if he chooses to be lonely?That doesn’t mean he likes it.So maybe that’s why, trapped in yet another dark, damp, crushingly lonely basement, he can’t be fucked to question it when a goddamn book asks if he wants to get off.
Relationships: Mark Bryant/Oliver Ritz
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	sed fierī sentiō et excrucior

**Author's Note:**

> Look, Meghan said the script was originally 80% hornier, and then I listened to it and it turns out Mark got a phone call of groans. I just filled in the blanks, man. I can't be blamed. 
> 
> Title is from Catullus 85.

**Catullus 85**

Ōdī et amō. Quārē id faciam fortasse requīris.  
Nesciō, sed fierī sentiō et excrucior.

I hate and I love. Why I do this, perhaps you ask.  
I know not, but I feel it happening and I am tortured

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, Oliver Ritz does not like to be alone. 

Yes, sure,  _ okay -  _ he’s used to it, of course. Hard not to be after being held against your will in a dark, damp basement for years on end with no freedom in sight. No company, no sunlight, no dignity. 

Yeah. Oliver is used to being alone. 

And so what if now he cultivates a certain mystique of aloofness? If he pushes people away to protect his heart even though he aches daily  _ \- hourly - _ for a reminder that he is real and he matters and that they can see him? So what if he chooses to be lonely?

That doesn’t mean he likes it. 

So maybe that’s why, trapped in yet another dark, damp, crushingly lonely basement, he can’t be fucked to question it when what feels like a warm hand shoves its way down his pants. 

A swear slips past his lips as he sinks into the stuffed leather chair behind him, only to feel the hot press of a body against his back. Another hand reaches around to grip his wrist, to wrench it away from the book, nails digging, sharp, into his skin. Oliver tried to bite back his gasp of surprise  _ (don’t be weak, never let them see you cry, never let them know they’re getting to you)  _ and settles for a low grunt of sorts, the sound a punched out mix of pleasure and pain coming from deep within his throat. 

Warm lips press to his neck and they soundlessly form the word:  _ yes? _

Then suddenly, everything stills. 

_ “Motherfucker,” _ Oliver growls at nobody in particular, because there is nobody here except him and the walls and the open book on the table that thrums with anticipation. There is nobody behind him, nobody holding onto his wrist so tightly he’s sure it will bruise, nobody with a hand gently pressing their palm over his underwear. 

So why the fuck can he  _ feel  _ it all?

The book, now out of reach, is taunting him from its perch on the table, the pages flipping idly by themselves as each one lets out a quiet, compelling murmur. It’s  _ asking -  _ and of course he’s being propositioned by a fucking book - a literal fucking book - and, well. Fuck. He kind of wants to say yes. 

It’s not like he’s been getting any, anyway. If he’s going to be stuck in a creepy basement for fuck knows how long, he might as well try not to feel so alone. 

With his free hand, he unbuttons his jeans and sinks into the invisible embrace. 

It’s hard to explain what it’s like being jerked off by the invisible, formless manifestation of a book’s soul, so maybe that’s why when Oliver closes his eyes, too overwhelmed by the nearly foreign sensation of being touched not for pain but for pleasure, it’s Mark he pictures in his head. 

He’s imagined Mark before while in shitty European hotel rooms, his back arching off of scratchy linen and sweat dripping down his face as he slowly jacked himself off, trying to pretend it wasn’t his own hand on his skin. It’s easier now to feel the way Mark’s long fingers would stroke him, the way his wrist would twist and adjust the lens on the most precious camera, with this entity, this  _ thing,  _ doing all the hard work. 

What is it like with the real thing? 

Does he even deserve to have it? 

Oliver only wanted to know what that electricity between them tasted like - but he’s broken and he breaks things and he broke Mark and he broke  _ them,  _ so now he’ll never know if the metallic tang of blood and longing is all there ever is. 

The murmuring from the book is getting louder now, and the strokes are getting firmer and faster and sloppy, and Oliver’s breath is coming in short, staccato beats that match his fluttering heart. The hand on his wrist moves to his hair, threading its fingers - Mark’s fingers,  _ fuck -  _ through his curls before it yanks his head to the side. 

Oliver moans, and he doesn’t even care that the sound echoes endlessly. He’s close, his head full of static and memories that don’t belong to him but  _ are  _ him and he is them and the book is getting louder and louder and louder. He’s getting sucked into its world, dragged into its pages to live forever as a shadow of an idea, and he thinks he could be okay with that if only he could see Mark one more time. 

If only he could apologize. 

“Mark,” he groans as the hand in his hair tightens and the phantom lips brush against his throat and the fingers around his cock speed up until his vision goes white and -

The book slams shut.

There is silence. 

He is alone and aching in a damp, dark basement and there is no sunlight or dignity or friendship or love left for him anymore. He’s too broken for it. 

You can never really leave Tier Five. 

Oliver falls back into the chair and sobs.

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I could say I was sorry, but I'm actually pretty proud.


End file.
